


programmed to deceive

by thisisgonnahurt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, handjobs, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisgonnahurt/pseuds/thisisgonnahurt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1847.html?thread=2249271#cmt2249271">this</a> post on the kink meme: "Saw a brilliant Philosoraptor today that read: If you are what you eat, is Hannibal Lecter more human than the rest of us?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	programmed to deceive

There are things you learn when the majority of your meals consist of human flesh.

There are the basic things – Hannibal has long ago learnt how to pinpoint someone with a good diet, contributing to the taste of their meat; he learnt even further back the way to properly bleed out and string up a human carcass. He knows all the tenderest places on a body, and twelve (at least) different ways to cook each separate category of meat (to raving compliments, courtesy of each and every one of the poor souls he has invited into his kitchen.) The methods, the techniques; each and all of these things, intrinsically involved in his chosen way of life, he is master over.

Then there are the not-so-basic things.

There is the way a man looks before he dies. There is the way his last breath leaves his lungs; the way the body twitches and finally stills; even the post-mortem elements (the escaping of gas, the involuntary muscle spasms) are an art, and Hannibal has studied it intensely. He is even well-versed in the various pleadings and gasped-out promises that often accompany a person when they know they are about to die, and he does not even so much as move an eyebrow when he hears them. 

Through death, humanity shines as vivacious as ever, and Hannibal collects these specimens almost jealously. He has experienced the whole range, for he takes pride in what he does, and –

“Part of taking pride in your work is understanding the full gravity of what you do, Will.” Hannibal’s voice is comforting, echoing in the dark space of his office, and he feels rather than sees Will tremble at the words. 

“I _help_ people,” Will protests, hands shaking. “Can I really put myself above the people I save by doing what I do?”

His question is desperate, and not for the first time, Hannibal wonders at his feelings for Will. Surely the man is ordinary, incapable of understanding what (and more importantly _why_ ) Hannibal does what he does? Yet Hannibal feels drawn to him, a feeling completely free of any rational logic he may lay upon it. Whether it is the feeling that Will would understand, that he may even _envy_ , Hannibal’s workmanship…these things are beyond what even Hannibal cares to surmise. He has absolute faith in himself; he has relied on his own instincts for too long to simply dismiss whatever it is they are trying to tell him.

“In the end, Will,” Hannibal says carefully, choosing each word as he watches the naked (vulnerable) emotions flit across Will’s face, “It is _you_ who will have to live your own life. As your friend, I want you to be happy.”

Will barks a short laugh. “I’m useless, Hannibal. What would I be doing if I wasn’t doing…what I’m doing now?” He finishes the sentence lamely, looking upset at his lack of eloquence. Hannibal takes a step towards him and pretends he doesn’t feel the elation coursing through his veins as Will steps backward. 

“Be happy?” Hannibal asks quietly. Will is a glaring billboard of emotion, of humanity; Hannibal doesn’t need his psychiatric degree (so easy to obtain, so easy to use to manipulate the unsuspecting) to peel Will open and stare inside. He pauses, looking quickly over Will’s distraught face, forming the plan of action in his head even as he says, “How long since you last slept properly, Will?”

Will sighs, dropping into the chair he has been restlessly circling and putting his head in his hands. “I don’t _know_. I can’t…” He makes a helpless gesture. “I don’t even know when I am actually asleep. It’s crazy, you know, how…how much I guess this can affect someone. A human.” 

There’s another pause, Hannibal steepling his fingers and merely staring as Will fidgets uncomfortably before finally biting out, “If I can even _call_ myself human.”

“And there, as Shakespeare might say, is the rub,” Hannibal responds. It takes all he has to not touch Will right then and there, instead opting to put his hands in his pockets (a gauche move, one he would normally avoid, but one that is crucial to the next step in his plan of getting Will to open up) and lean against his desk. The feigned nonchalance puts Will to ease. “You believe you are not human.”

“How can I be? I’m not disgusted at the…the atrocities that I see almost every day. Sometimes I feel like I don’t freak out because…because I’m a coward. Because my brain doesn’t want to deal with what it sees.” He exhales, and Hannibal watches the depression of his plaid shirt as it moves with his breath. “I guess I eat too much chicken.”

Hannibal is genuinely taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Will looks startled. “Oh, sorry. Sometimes I forget, y’know…forget your first language isn’t English. Um. It’s like, that phrase, ‘you are what you eat’? So I guess I eat too much chicken, um, because I’m…I’m chicken. I’m afraid.”

Hannibal huffs a quiet laugh. “Fear is not always a bad thing, Will. The key is developing yourself into such a person where you can trust your instincts on that regard.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it – he can almost hear Will filing that away, adding it to the mental catalogue that he keeps on one Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal has created crimes for Will, has seen firsthand the frustration that they cause for him, but Hannibal still finds himself craving the foremost spot in this remarkable man’s mind. Odd, this quest for approval from someone he should consider inferior.

There is a pregnant pause before Will nods. His voice is almost a whisper when he says, “I…I’m not _myself_. I – I can’t trust myself because I am so many… _others_ , how can I –” 

He looks truly lost. 

Hannibal smiles.

“You can see into the mind of the killer, Will. You can feel his feelings, think his thoughts – you have access to the very dregs of humanity.” Hannibal stops, because Will has risen from his chair.

In the moments before that first kiss, Hannibal thinks a lot of things. The main thing on his mind is how easy it is to predict Will’s move – Hannibal has spent much time studying humans to not pick up on some of the more invisible cues they display. In the moments before that first kiss, he thinks on how he knew Will’s intentions before the other man even did himself: a slight shift in the eyes, a twist of a shoulder. The flicker of his gaze towards Hannibal’s mouth.

Humans are (Hannibal thinks, in the moments before that first kiss,) easy to read if you only know the language for which to look.

Then Will’s dry lips are pressed against his, and Hannibal is almost afraid at how quickly his thoughts are diverted.

He wouldn’t have classified Will as a virgin, by any means, but the ease at which Will swings his legs apart so he is crowding Hannibal against the desk speaks volumes as to his actual experience. The way he grasps Hannibal’s chin in his hand, directing the kiss, should most certainly _not_ make Hannibal’s knees shake, but they do.

They _do._

That is what snaps Hannibal’s mind back into focus. In an instant he has grabbed Will’s shoulders while also canting his hips; the manoeuvre is old (to him) but makes Will moan into his teeth and relax, thighs shaking against Hannibal’s sides and hands falling down, as if ashamed that he had ever taken the dominant role. Hannibal smells his sweat and arousal

(a scent he knows, one he has deliberately shaken loose from his prey, a technique he has not used in years but still knows by heart)

and digs his teeth into Will’s collarbone, brooking no argument. Will isn’t inclined to give one anyway, choosing instead to gasp and tilt his head back. 

The floor seems an unlikely place to move this encounter, with Hannibal’s dignity and Will’s uncertainty, but it accepts them in their heated tangle quite readily, Will’s fingers mapping out Hannibal’s skull and Hannibal’s own fingers already wrapped around Will’s cock. Will moans, dropping his head onto Hannibal’s shoulder as Hannibal rocks them back and forth, hand twisting along both their cocks. It has been a while since he, Hannibal (and Will too, but Hannibal is surprised to learn that, and doesn’t in fact learn about it for it another twelve and a half days) has sought out another person for help in the fulfillment of this particular act; his hand is deft, cunning, yet he drags Will along the edge for an embarrassing amount of time before finally allowing the other man to come. 

(When Will _does_ come, it is with a gasp and a sigh and a full-body tremble on top of Hannibal, cock jerking in his hand and nipples stiffening against Hannibal’s own skin, and his surrender is just as beautiful as the look on anyone’s face while Hannibal strangles the life from their very bones.)

(When Hannibal comes, he digs his teeth into Will’s shoulder and _pulls_ ; Will’s response is not to pull away or shriek in pain, but instead to bare his throat, nails denting Hannibal’s skin as warm spurts of come coat both their bellies.)

*  
Afterwards, Hannibal makes tea and Will politely declines, choosing instead to swallow coffee as though his life depends upon it. Hannibal does not bother to hide the lock of his eyes on Will’s throat; Will averts his gaze, and cannot possible hope to conceal his downwards glance towards Hannibal’s cock.

The case is actually rather interesting (as far as Hannibal can tell, when he is not busy analysing Will’s obvious attempt at simple discussion of the crime at hand) and Hannibal finds himself honestly intrigued at the possibilities it presents. They continue the conversation in that vein until Will’s phone beeps and they are interrupted by the severe tones of Jack Crawford.

(When Will leaves, he imagines Hannibal as more human than he’d ever thought possible.)

(Hannibal merely puts on Liszt and runs the plan over in his mind, just in case.)

**Author's Note:**

> using humanity as a bookend for porn or using porn to illustrate humanity?
> 
> the world may never get a straight answer.


End file.
